"Fecund Knight" banner

FIC: "Fecund Knight" (2/WIP)
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: September 12, 2004
FANDOM: "King Arthur" (2004 movie)
PAIRING: Arthur / Lancelot (Clive Owen & Ioan Gruffudd)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They belong to Touchstone Pictures, to the respective actors of the Jerry Bruckheimer movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: Slash, MPreg, nothing graphic
SUMMARY: Lancelot contemplates his condition and the future of his relationship with Arthur.
BETA: CharlieMC (thanks, as always!)
AUTHOR NOTES: "Fecund" -- Capable of producing offspring; fruitful (from the Latin, "fecundus"). Written for the Arthur MPreg list I co-moderate: Arthurian-MPregs-FemPregs

Part Two

Lancelot bent over the bowl he kept next to his bed, retching. For the past several mornings, he had found himself sick before even rising. Regardless of what he ate or even if he ate at all the day before, the nausea overcame him at first light. He usually found it was better to have something substantial on his stomach that he could then expel, rather than simply spending the first minutes of each day heaving with no result. So he often forced himself to consume some bread or pudding before bed for that very reason, despite his lack of appetite.

Finished, he picked up his water jug and took a swig, swished the liquid around his mouth and then spat into the bowl. He sighed. He had never been afflicted with a 'weak stomach,' and even the goriest sight or most wretched smell could not affect him. When the other knights were complaining over stagnant water and rubbing their sore bellies after ingesting moldy bread, Lancelot would usually just smile and shake his head. Now he was not only queasy in the morning, he found the merest scent of something cooking could instantly turn his stomach and send him hurrying to the nearest privy at any time of day.

He had tried as hard as he could to conceal his sickness from the other knights, partially from pride, partially from a desire to keep his physical condition private. Only Arthur was aware of the changes happening to Lancelot, and he watched the signs with both a solicitous interest and what seemed to be a burgeoning expectation that instead of pleasing Lancelot, infuriated him.

"I am too hot half the time, and the other half too cold! I can run up a mountain and barely lose my breath, but then have sweat break out on my brow from merely sitting playing dice. It's ridiculous!"

Arthur would sit and listen to the complaints patiently, keeping silent. His eyes would follow Lancelot as the agitated knight paced across the room.

"Say something!" Lancelot would finally demand, but Arthur would just smile.

As he climbed out of bed on this particular morning, Lancelot found himself both loathing and longing for his commander and friend. Arthur had invited Lancelot to sleep in his room the night prior, but Lancelot had refused, too tired and out of sorts to entertain even conversation. Now he wished Arthur had been here to stroke his back and comfort him while he retched. Arthur's warm breath and flushed skin would have offered a welcome respite to the chill of dawn. And shouldn't the stalwart leader who fashioned himself as a stoic Roman take responsibility for a condition that was probably his fault?

How he could have such paradoxical emotions raging through him at the same time baffled Lancelot. But then, he had never spent time with a pregnant woman and experienced her shifting moods.

He and Arthur didn't speak of the night they spent under the influence of the Celtic charm. But thinking back, Lancelot could never remember a time he had seen his friend in such a passion. Arthur had made love to him with a fervent and almost desperate urgency, taking him over and over again during those protracted hours. Usually when they coupled, it was Lancelot's ardor that lasted longest. On that night, Arthur's appetite could not be sated; and even as the first light of morning began to dry the dewy covering outside, Arthur's body covered Lancelot's again and delivered another deposit of his seed.

On that night, Arthur had been like a tireless bee pollinating a field of flowers single-handedly, rarely stopping long enough to rest or take refreshment, while Lancelot had cried out for a drink of water or wine to wet a mouth parched from his own panting.

"I will save you!" Arthur had hoarsely promised again and again.

"Yes, Arthur," was all Lancelot could answer. "Yes."

More than once Arthur's voice had gasped the words "Give me a son!" Again, Lancelot's response was a sincere assent.

"Yes, Arthur . . . yes."

In the morning Lancelot had found himself sore and tired, but filled with a strange sort of contentment. Regardless of the outcome of this odd quest, Arthur had finally proven to Lancelot that he loved him above all others. And his avid lovemaking would leave a mark, even if it bore no visible fruit.

Four weeks had passed, and the autumnal air smelled of burning leaves. Both the men and their horses were edgy, sensing the unwelcome approach of winter. But even more, the men knew their 15 years of servitude to the Roman Empire was fast coming to a close, and probably before the first snow fell, they would get their official discharge from service. The Sarmatian knights would be no more.

Lancelot couldn't allow himself to contemplate a future without knighthood, and, more importantly, without Arthur. He joked and teased with his friends about their possible prospects, but he rarely took time to imagine his own fate. When he did, he could foresee a long, bitterly cold winter of more than the usual physical discomfort, followed by a wet spring redolent with impatient expectation, finally culminating in a welcome, radiant summer. And by then, his life would be made new, just like the land. Because he now knew with certainty that he was, indeed, carrying a child. He had felt the spark. And despite the sickness and the moodiness, he walked around with a sort of contentment he had never before experienced, a sense of well-being that rested on his spirit like a firm, friendly hand on a man's shoulder.

He didn't understand how he could feel such contentment when he knew his friends would be leaving for their distant homes in Sarmatia, and Arthur would probably return to live in affluence in Rome. He would be left alone in a land slowly being abandoned by the Roman army to either be taken back by the wild natives or overrun with barbarians. He'd be huddled all winter in the fortress with a swelling belly, forced to depend on the villagers who surrounded the garrison to provide for him. And if they found out about his strange condition, they would probably drive him out into the forest, where he would have few defenses against the creatures -- including the men -- who dwelled there.

But how could Arthur leave Britain now, with Lancelot fostering the fruit of his loins? He would be forced to stay behind and wait until the child had been born, and while they both waited, it would be Arthur's duty to care for Lancelot.

His duty and his pleasure -- for once in his life the same.

And then, when the baby was old enough that no one could guess its magic origin, they would probably go together to Rome. Lancelot had little desire to live in the clamor and squalor of the huge city, but he was now inextricably linked to Arthur, who had long dreamed of returning there. The few years Arthur had spent in Rome had made an indelible impression on him, and Lancelot knew he craved the company of the learned men who lived there and the Christian church it housed.

If he could live in Britain with the interminable bad weather and within the fury of the blue men of the north, Lancelot imagined he could learn to tolerate Rome, as well.

"How are you this morning?" Arthur asked, approaching Lancelot as he sat alone, breaking his fast with bread and milk.

"Fine," he replied, enjoying the cool richness of the milk, the one food that never seemed to bother him.

"Were you ill this morning?"

Lancelot felt the first twinges of annoyance at Arthur's solicitude and fought them, realizing how unreasonable he had become. He shook his head, not really answering the question but trying to make it clear that it wasn't worth mentioning. He saw Tristan approaching.

"Your horse is down," Tristan said matter-of-factly to Lancelot. "I think it's colic. He's swollen and sweating."

As alarmed as he was, Lancelot couldn't help comparing the description of his horse to his own condition. He was surprised to find himself hoping the knights would all be gone before his pregnancy was too obvious and he became the topic of sarcastic conversation. Then the seriousness of Tristan's announcement took hold and he leapt up from the table.

"I'll get Jols," Arthur said, referring to their squire.

Lancelot ran to the stable, leaving Tristan to catch up. He saw with horror that his black stallion, Vertigo, was indeed lying in his stall, his breath labored, his hide slick with sweat.

"Help me get him up!" he shouted to Tristan.

"Be careful," Tristan warned.

The two knights encouraged the war-horse to his feet and led him outside the stall. Tristan bent down and took the horse's pulse just below his right front fetlock. "Nothing. He's not foundering," he announced.

Jols and Arthur entered the stable, followed by Bors and Dagonet. The four men looked worriedly at the war-horse, unable to keep from reaching out and stroking the damp body of the huge beast. Jols laid his head on the horse's right flank.

"No sound in his bowel," Jols said.

Tristan looked around in Vertigo's stall. "And no manure," he said. "He must be impacted."

"I'll get a bucket of water and some oil," Jols said. "Walk him around."

Reluctant to put a lead on the suffering horse, Lancelot whispered to him to encourage him to move around the stable. He stared in the eyes of his beloved mount, remembering the stories his father had told of dead knights returning to the world as great horses. If this were true, Vertigo had certainly once been a dragon-slayer or a giant-killer! He was twice as brave as Lancelot himself.

"Hold him, Lancelot, and try to keep him still. I'll tell you when to walk him," Jols instructed, smearing his right arm with oil up to his elbow and stepping up on a stool. "Let's see if we can fix him up."

Lancelot cooed to the big horse as Jols did his work. All the while, he castigated himself for whatever fault had led to the horse's condition. Had he not given Vertigo enough water? Had he lacked exercise or the proper diet? Had he sucked too much wind on their last outing? What could have prevented this suffering?

And as he did so, once again Lancelot found himself comparing the situation to his own, wondering if Arthur also blamed himself for his friend's sickness and dreaded the months of inevitable discomfort to come.

"Here we go -- get ready to walk him, Lancelot!"

Vertigo reared his head and whinnied loudly as his impacted bowel gave way. Tristan and Bors laughed as Jols fell backward, covered in horse shit.

"That must have been a relief," Arthur commented, smiling over at Lancelot. Lancelot pushed on Vertigo's neck, urging him now to move around.

"I felt the same way myself, just the day before yesterday," Bors reported, and they all joined in the laughter as he continued with vivid descriptions of his own condition and the successful outcome.

"He'll be fine," Arthur assured Lancelot in a quiet voice. "He's the strongest mount we have."

They locked eyes. Lancelot was certain they were both thinking the same thing, and it had nothing to do with the horse.

"I know," he said, wanting more than anything to be in Arthur's arms.

"Give him water, but don't feed him anything for a few hours," Tristan said. "His bowel needs time to calm."

Jols nodded at Tristan, then shrugged. "Could someone else get the horse some water? I think I need to go clean up."

"I'll take care of him," Lancelot said, grinning. "It's the least I can do."

For the rest of the morning, Lancelot stayed in the stables with Vertigo, walking him and talking to him, pausing only to encourage the horse to drink. "We'll take a long ride tomorrow, my beautiful friend," he promised. "And we'll get a good run. We could both use that." A line of worry furrowed Lancelot's forehead as his mind drifted ahead. Who would make sure Vertigo was properly exercised when he was physically unable to do so himself?

He turned to find the answer. Arthur stood in the doorway, watching.

"You need some rest yourself, Lancelot. The horse will be fine, and Jols can watch him now."

Lancelot smiled sheepishly, embarrassed to have his friend overhear his conversation with the horse. Then he remembered many other times he had seen Arthur affectionately grooming his own war-horse and realized there was no shame in his love for Vertigo.

Just as there was no shame in his love for Arthur -- or in his conception of the man's child.

Arthur called to Jols, who appeared immediately. Then he turned and took Lancelot's arm. "Come, now. You need something to eat and a rest. No arguments."

Lancelot went with him, his smile one of relief. He was happy to be led by Arthur, just as Vertigo had allowed himself to be led around the stables for the past hours. He was at ease with Arthur's leadership, and he looked forward to his caring succor, both now and in future months when he would need it even more. He silently accompanied his friend and commander back to their quarters.

For once, Lancelot had no argument.

The End, Part Two

Part Three



Home  |  Disclaimer  |  Fandom Definitions  |  FanFic  | 
News  |  Recs--Links  |  Forum  |  Link to Us  | 
Webmasters  |  Search the Site  |



Valid HTML 4.01 Transitional

Valid CSS!